Killing Cupid (20 page)

But it wouldn’t let me go. I could feel Alex, smell the potent mixture of his aftershave and my own fear, all the time. I wanted to punch out at him, hurt him, for having all that misdirected emotion; for getting it so wrong. How come he was so fucked up with me, and yet now seemed to be having a perfectly normal relationship with somebody else? It didn’t make sense. The confusion of it all seemed to be fanning the sparks of my anger at him into something bigger and even more preoccupying.

I was beginning to worry about myself.

Chapter 20

Alex

Saturday

Emily came over again last night. I spent much of the afternoon fretting that it was all going to go disastrously wrong, that we’d be clumsy with one another; the flame we had kindled snuffed out by post-first-date awkwardness. But I needn’t have worried. Emily grabbed and kissed me almost as soon as she’d stepped through the door. Five minutes later we were in bed, and this time I didn’t wilt. I was All Man. A rock. Eleven and a half stone of surging testosterone. We made love, and then we made love again.

It was incredible. Every time she smiles I get this weird feeling in my stomach. And she really makes me laugh. She says such silly things, and she’s so sweet and naïve. She makes me want to protect her, wrap my arms around her and shield her from the harsh world. She was telling me about her childhood, about this girl who used to bully her at school, and I can tell she still feels hurt by the experience even though it was more than ten years ago. She told me she can’t cope with confrontation, or aggression. If anyone’s mean to her at work it can leave her feeling upset for days.

Now she’s just kissed me goodbye, and I’m a bit delirious. I feel euphoric, a warm liquid feeling flowing through me like honey… but the silver lining has a cloud:

Siobhan.

While Emily and I were lying in bed, blissed out and post-coital, not caring about the damp patch beneath us (it’s so nice to share a damp patch with someone after all this time!) I had a sudden, horrific realisation: Siobhan’s letter, asking for repayment, was lying on my desk, face up and in full view of anyone who happened to glance down at the desk. Suddenly, I couldn’t concentrate on what Emily was saying. What if she saw the letter, with its matter-of-fact summary of all I’d done? What would I say?

I’d already decided not to tell Emily about Siobhan. Not because I want to keep secrets from her but…well, how would I explain it? When I think about how I behaved, how stupid I was, I feel sick and have to try to push the memories away. I haven’t forgotten about Siobhan – I can’t just turn my feelings off, despite what’s happened with Emily. But Siobhan rejected me, and I know I acted like…well, all I can say is that I’m not proud of myself. I thought I was in love with Siobhan, but I think it was just because I was so lonely. I was looking for someone to save me, and I really believed that Siobhan was the one. But I was so wrong.

It’s as if Emily has cast a brilliant light that makes me see everything clearly, including the shadows. When I’m lying next to Emily and I think about the things I did to try to get close to Siobhan, I feel wretched. Look how simple things are with Emily; how straightforward. This is the way it’s supposed to be. And maybe I’m just trying to excuse myself, but it’s as if I was ill, and now Emily has made me feel better. It’s like I’ve had an epiphany. And a chance for redemption.

So right now I want to be able to forget the last few months, erase them as if I’m dragging a file into the trash, start afresh. But how can I do that? I can’t forget it ever happened – not until I’ve paid Siobhan the money I owe her.

Every time I feel a ray of happiness warm me, I think about how I’m going to pay Siobhan back and I feel cold again...

After a while, Emily got up to go to the loo, and I shot over to my desk, stepping over the two used condoms, and hid the letter under a big pile of paper. I was just about to get back into bed when I heard a scream.

I rushed out into the hall and collided with a naked Emily, who was running back into my bedroom. She dragged me back into the bedroom, her cheeks pink.

‘What is it?’ I asked.

‘I was coming out of the loo when the front door opened.’

‘What?’

‘Natalie and Simon are back from their trip.’ She laughed. ‘Poor Simon didn’t know where to look.’

‘God,’ I said, ‘you had me worried. I thought that maybe we had an intruder.’

‘Hi Alex,’ called Simon from outside the room. ‘Hi Emily.’

Giggling stupidly, Emily and I climbed back under the covers. ‘I bet he did know where to look,’ I said.

‘Oh yeah? Where?’

‘Right… here.’

Later, after Emily had gone, I went into the kitchen where I found Si and Nat making lunch.

Simon raised an eyebrow. ‘I don’t know, we go away for a few days and look what happens. From monk to lothario. What a transformation.’

I turned to Natalie. She looked well. ‘How do you feel?’

She nodded. ‘Better. Not one hundred per cent, but…’

Simon put his arm round her and they exchanged a look that, just a week or two ago would have made me feel envious, if not ill. But now, it made me feel all… God, I feel really embarrassed writing this, but it made feel all glowy.

Now, I understand what it feels like to be part of a couple.

It feels fucking great.

This afternoon, I decided it was time to find a job. A decent one. Something to keep me fully stimulated until my writing career takes off. I updated my CV and went out to buy the local paper to see what the employment world had to offer.

There were simply dozens of opportunities – if you want to work in telesales or as a care assistant. What a choice. Wiping arses or speaking to them. Still, I thought, tomorrow’s paper might have some fantastic opportunity that will help me earn the cash to settle with Siobhan.

In the meantime, I decided to work on my short stories. I’ve written a few, mainly about my travelling experiences, and I was starting another one – about an unemployed guy who falls in love with two women – when Simon knocked on the door.

‘Phone.’

It must be Emily, I thought, a smile broadening to a grin as I walked towards the living room. What would we do tonight, I wondered? Maybe we could try out her bed for a change.

I picked up the receiver and said a cheery, ‘Hi.’

‘Alex?’

A snowball exploded in my stomach.

‘Hello, Alex?’

It was a voice I hadn’t heard for a long time. I was unable to speak; I felt my throat close up. I just stood there, holding the receiver, feeling as if I was going to throw up. She said my name a couple more times and then, finally, I spoke: ‘Mum?’

I heard her inhale. Or maybe she was sucking on a cigarette – ‘my little crutches’, as she used to call them. She said, ‘Didn’t you get my messages? I’ve been trying to get hold of you for weeks.’

‘I…’ I was trying to think how long it had been since I’d spoken to her. Three or four years. And here she was, talking to me as if we weren’t strangers, her voice filled with that oh-so-familiar tone of indignation.

‘I expect your friend didn’t bother to tell you.’

‘I think he may have…

She interrupted. ‘So how are you? How’s London?’

‘It’s fine.’

She grunted. There was a long silence. Awkward was not the word for it.

‘Well, anyway,’ she said, inhaling again, ‘I’ve got some sad news for you.’

I tensed, wondering what it was. Was she coming to visit me? I shuddered.

‘Your Great Uncle Clive passed away.’

Who? ‘Oh. I’m sorry.’ I wanted to ask why on earth she felt the need to call me and tell me about the death of some distant relative who I’d probably met at some function or other but who I had absolutely no recollection of.

‘Yes. It was very sad.’

There was another long, painful pause. I could hear the distant sound of laughter through the walls: Si and Nat in his bedroom. I started to chew my thumbnail, just like I used to until Mum made me smear my nails with a foul-tasting liquid. I could taste it now.

She cleared her throat. ‘Anyway, I needed to talk to you because Uncle Clive left you and Annette some money. I’ve got a cheque for four thousand pounds sitting here with your name on it. So, assuming you want it, and I don’t know why you wouldn’t, you’ll have to come and get it.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Well, I’m not going to send it to you. I don’t know what kind of person you live with. You might not get it.’

‘No, I meant, can you say that again? Uncle Clive left me some ... money?’

She huffed. ‘Yes – four thousand.. It was in his will – he wanted his money to be divided up between all the family. Not that either of you kids ever bothered to go and see him. Just like you never come to see me.’

There was a pause, during which I visualised a cheque for four grand. Then I imagined myself having to venture into the dragon’s cave to get it.

‘It’s perfectly safe for you to send it here,’ I said.

I could picture her shaking her head, sending fag ash flying. ‘No. You’ll have to come here to get it. Is that really such an awful prospect?’

God yes. ‘It’s just that I’m really busy...’

She puffed. ‘Look, if you don’t want the cheque I can always send it back to the solicitor.’

I started to speak and she stamped on my words: ‘Look, the cheque’s here. If you want it, you know where I am.’ She hung up.

I walked back to my room, in shock. £4000. With £4000 I could pay back Siobhan, and still have a decent amount left over – enough to help me get by while I looked for a job. Of course I wanted it. I needed it. But having to go back home to get it – that fact turned the sweet news sour.

This was her way of maintaining her power over me. She need never have told me about the money – she could have spent it on herself, on fags and make-up and the live scorpions she enjoys eating for lunch (okay, that’s an exaggeration – she only eats dead ones). But then she must have schemed up the idea of making me go there to get it. If only I didn’t need the money – it would give me great pleasure to tell her to keep it, or give it to her favourite charity, the National Society for Cruelty to Children. But I do need it. It’s the only way to sever my ties with Siobhan and get on with my life. It’s been a huge stroke of luck for me to be left this money – it’s the kind of thing that makes me wonder if I have some kind of guardian angel. It would be stupid of me to turn it down.

Sunday

I’ve just spent a whole night and day with Emily and for most of those hours I felt drunk. Now she’s gone though, the anxiety is starting to creep back: I’ve decided I’m going to go home tomorrow, to pick up my cheque.

‘That’s such good news,’ Emily said, when I told her about the money. We were lying in bed, her head resting on my chest, her hair soft and slightly tickly against my skin.

‘I know. But I don’t want to have to go there to get it.’

‘Why?’ She rolled onto her front so she could look at me properly. She smelled delicious and warm. ‘Why do you hate your mum so much?’

I sighed and closed my eyes. It was so difficult to explain. How could I summarise it? Years of small cruelties, subtle abuses of power and trust. I said, ‘Because she hates me.’

Emily looked taken aback. ‘How can your mother hate you, Alex?’

‘Because I’m too much like my dad, I suppose. Well, according to her, I am. I wouldn’t know.’

She waited for me to continue.

‘My dad left my mum when she was pregnant with my sister, Annette, who’s two years younger than me. So he left her with a two year old and a bump. I don’t remember him, of course – all I remember are the things my mother used to say about him.’ I rubbed my eyes. Telling this tale made me feel tired. ‘When I was growing up, I couldn’t understand why she was so awful to me. Then I worked out that she blamed me for what happened. But even if you think about it logically, it doesn’t make sense: why didn’t she hate Annette? He hadn’t left until she fell pregnant with my sister.’

‘So she treated the two of you differently?’

‘Definitely. It was as if the two of them were allies and I was some kind of enemy within. Maybe it was just because I was a man. Maybe I looked like him. Maybe I reminded her of when he was around. I don’t know. But my earliest memory is of her having a go at me because I’d knocked over a glass of blackcurrant; and Annette was there in the background, just a baby, laughing along.’

Emily stroked my chest.

‘I suppose there were times when Mum was…a normal mother. If I got into trouble at school she would defend me, too vociferously sometimes, marching into school and shouting at the teachers, so they started to dislike me too. And I remember this time when I was really sick. I had this awful fever, hallucinating.’ I laughed. ‘You won’t believe this, but I could see Tetley Tea Bag men climbing up the curtains.’

Emily smiled and said, ‘Beats pink elephants.’

‘Hmm. So…. where was I? Um, so she was nice sometimes. There was another time, when I ate too many Creme Eggs and was really sick and she nursed me. But most of the time she was a cow. She wasn’t really violent – not often, anyway. She would shake me; she slapped me a couple of times. Oh God, and once she caned me. Shit, I’d almost forgotten about that.’ I paused, waiting for the memory to crystallise. ‘I remember why she did it. I’d been running around in the playground at school and some kid had tripped me over. When I hit the concrete my trousers ripped – they were ruined. Mum said she was going to teach me a lesson for being so clumsy. She had this length of bamboo, and she made me hold out my hand, palm up. I was trembling; it was really hard to keep my hand outstretched. But she said that every time I snatched my hand away she’d add two strikes.’

Emily took hold of my hand and kissed my fingers.

‘The thing is, that kind of cruelty was easier to deal with than the day-to-day mental stuff. The insults, the piss-taking, the sarcasm. That wore me down, made me feel useless, pathetic. But I didn’t know how to deal with her; she knew exactly how to control me. I just used to think, as soon as I’m eighteen I’ll be able to leave home and then I’ll never have to speak to her again. And I used to imagine myself becoming rich and famous so I could tell the world what a bitch she was.’ I laughed mirthlessly. ‘I have a lot of sympathy for Eminem.’